


a natural sequel

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Austen-levels of Repression, F/M, Magic, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, The AU that like two people and a cat asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-04 17:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17902007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Miss Lucy Preston does notneeda husband. Nor, quite frankly, does she want one. But when her mother gives her an ultimatum, Lucy finds herself turning to a most unexpected place.[Or: In which Miss Lucy Preston and Mr. Garcia Flynn get off on several wrong feet before stumbling onto the right one. And after that...who can say?]





	1. An Unnatural Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is another AU from the land of "how would you write XYZ trope mashup" in which I believe the original prompt was roommates and marriage of convenience. I came up with both a period and a modern version and this is the period version. Rating may change at some point, but if it did that would be much later.

The London season is, in Miss Lucy Preston’s opinion, one of the dullest and most frustrating times of the year. For those young ladies newly out in society, it is a time that sparkles and shines with possibilities. But Lucy has never cared for it—for the endless parade of dresses and balls and dinner parties, being forced to dance and make polite conversation with one eligible bachelor after another, never mind the fact that none of them have ever been particularly interested in her real thoughts and opinions. 

She would much rather be on an airship with Connor Mason and his crew, exploring the world, delving into history, uncovering artifacts, than be stuffed into a gown with corset laces pulled tight enough to steal her breath in order to catch a husband. This year, the primary contender for the role in the eyes of Lucy’s mother is the young Viscount Noah Marbury, but although he is admittedly not difficult on the eyes and closer to her age than some others who have been pushed at her over the years, he also has an unfortunate tendency to speak very boldly about how their lives will be _when_ Lucy is his wife, which is certainly one of the quickest ways to assure her distaste. 

“Well, _I_ heard that Miss Warrington and Mr. Sutton are due to announce their engagement any day now—”

Lucy sighs and excuses herself from the huddle of gossiping women—if she doesn’t get some air, she might scream, and that would really give the gentry something to gossip about. On her way to the gardens, she suddenly finds herself knocked off her feet when another body collides with hers—

Strong hands catch her around the waist before she can fall, and Lucy blinks up at a familiar face, albeit one she hasn’t seen for months. 

“Mr. Flynn!”

Garcia Flynn is, ostensibly, a gentleman. He certainly has enough money to be one, and Lucy has heard that his estate is rather splendid, but he is rarely in London and even more rarely seen at events like this one. So her surprise is not without merit. 

He looks well. She is glad to see it. 

“Miss Preston…” Flynn’s eyes flick down, taking her in, and then he clears his throat and snatches his hands back as if burned. “You look...excuse me.”

“Are you looking for someone?” Lucy asks before he can run off and disappear again. 

“I was attempting to find Lord Mason,” he admits. “But so far, I’ve been rather unsuccessful.”

“Well, there’s a good reason for that. He’s not here.” 

The inventor had, in fact, asked her if she would like to go with him before he ran off in the middle of the season, but there is only so far Lucy is willing to risk her mother’s wrath at this time of the year. A few months before and immediately after the season, she is more than happy to get away, but this year—especially this year—she wasn’t going to push her luck.

“He isn’t?” Flynn’s brow furrows. “But it’s—”

“His own ball at his own house?” Lucy fills in. “Yes, well. You know he can be...eccentric. He got a tip about some artifact in Greece and had to have a look before anyone else. Was there...something you needed?”

Flynn shakes his head. “No, I—Jiya had spoken with him about making something for—for Iris, but it isn’t urgent.”

“Is she—” Flynn tenses and Lucy wets her lips before barreling through. “How is she?”

He glances around, seems to decide that answering her can’t hurt, and relaxes, the ghost of a smile even tugging at the side of his mouth. 

“She’s doing much better than the last time you saw her. Starting to talk a little more,” he replies. “Recently, she’s gotten very interested in the pianoforte. It’s made the house a lot less...quiet than before.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something else, looks away as he closes it, then clears his throat as he looks back again. 

“She asks about you sometimes,” Flynn admits. “I considered writing, but I didn’t have your address and I wasn’t sure if you would want…”

Lucy’s face grows warm as she tamps down on the pleased twist in her stomach. There is no reason for her to care one bit that he wanted to write to her or was concerned about his reception if he did. She could point out that Connor certainly has her address and would have been more than willing to give it out if Flynn had asked, but he seems uncharacteristically shy about the admission and it may be cruel to tease him. 

They’re close to Connor’s private study, and Lucy knows the combination to the door…

“Wait just a moment?”

She doesn’t wait for a response before walking down the hall, opening the door, grabbing an empty card—

“Here,” she says when she returns, offering Flynn the now filled-in card with her address. “Now you do.”

Flynn stares down at the card, and for half a moment, Lucy wonders if he won’t take it, if she’s been too forward, if she misunderstood. But then he does, nodding once as he tucks it away in his jacket. 

“I...have a few more days of business to take care of in London,” he acknowledges. “I imagine you’ll be...occupied, but if not, I’ve taken up residence at Tompkins House in Berkeley Square. Would you—”

“Lucy?” Her cousin Emma appears in the doorway, raising an eyebrow as she glances suspiciously between Lucy and Flynn. “Lord Marbury was looking for a waltz partner. Your mother sent me to fetch you.”

Flynn steps back to a more respectable distance and links his hands behind his back. “I should take my leave as it is. Thank you for your time, Miss Preston. It was...good to see you again.” 

With that, he turns and walks out, ignoring Emma as he passes her.

“Was that...Garcia Flynn?” Emma asks. “My goodness, you do keep interesting company, don’t you, Lucy? Does your mother know that you’re acquainted?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of her business,” Lucy replies. 

“How did you even meet him?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of yours either.”

It’s not the end of the conversation, but it’s the end for the moment, and Lucy forces a smile on her face as she heads back into the main hall. Even if she were inclined to talk about Garcia Flynn, she wouldn’t know how to start. Their acquaintance has not been exactly...usual. 

But then, nothing that starts with Connor Mason typically is.

* * *

_A year and six months ago_

A tall, dark-haired man in a long coat stalks past Lucy as she makes her way up the gangplank of Connor Mason’s airship, bumping her into the rail. She opens her mouth to question his manners, but when she looks up, he’s already far enough away that it hardly seems worth it.

“Lucy!”

Her irritation slips away at the sound of a familiar voice, and she turns with a smile.

“Rufus!” She kisses his cheek as he takes her valise with one arm and hugs her with the other—scandalously informal as far as her mother would likely be concerned, but Lucy hasn’t cared about proper boundaries with any of the Mason crew for some time.

“You all right?” Rufus asks. “Looked like you almost fell.”

“I’m fine,” Lucy assures. On the deck, the man from before appears deep in conversation with Connor himself, his scowl deepening as she watches. “Who is that man? Did Connor hire another soldier?”

Rufus shakes his head. “He was a soldier, but he’s not for hire. Connor’s doing him a favor. That’s Garcia Flynn.”

“ _That’s_ Garcia Flynn?” Lucy blinks and looks back at the man. She’s heard of Garcia Flynn—she couldn’t possibly managed not to. There’s no one in London who didn’t hear when the late—and very wealthy—Mr. Gabriel Tompkins passed unexpectedly and it turned out he had left his estate to his sister Maria’s son, made all the more scandalous by the fact that it was well known their father had written her off when she ran away with some foreign soldier in her youth. After the fact, Mr. Flynn never came to London, having apparently decided that he had no need for society and instead wished only to live with his wife and child in peace. 

Of course, privacy only feeds the rumor mill. And Mr. Flynn’s wife died six months ago—some said it was a riding accident, others claimed magic, and the worst of all determined that the man had murdered her of all the wretched things. 

But what would he possibly be doing here? On a research trip to Romania. What sort of favor could Connor be doing him by bringing him along?

As if bidden by her thoughts, Flynn looks up from his conversation and meets her eyes. Even at a distance, she can tell they’re dark. His face is shadowed. 

After a moment, he tears his eyes away from her, says one last thing to Connor, and then disappears belowdecks. 

Well. It should be an interesting trip.


	2. An Auspicious Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Garcia Flynn continues to make an impression.

_A year and six months ago_

“I thought we were going to Romania.” Lucy stares at Connor across the desk in his office as the airship engines hum quietly in the background. The man holds up his hands in reassurance and leans back in his chair.

“We are,” he replies. “We’re simply taking a...minor detour before we get there. I would have told you before we took off, but I didn’t think you were likely to mind, and I was rather preoccupied as it was. That said, I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

The thing is, Lucy _doesn’t_ mind on principle—it’s hardly the first time Connor has changed plans on her last minute, and she has no reason to disbelieve him when he says they’ll be back on track soon enough—but she’s also always been included in the decision. 

“Why Venice?” She asks. “Can you at least tell me that?”

“Ah, well—” Connor winces. “That’s a...private matter, I’m afraid. But—”

“Does it have something to do with Garcia Flynn?”

Connor opens his mouth, shuts it. Sighs. 

“Yes,” he admits. “But that is all I will say on the subject. If you truly wish to know, you should ask him, which, for the record, Miss Preston, I do not recommend. Mr. Flynn can be difficult at the best of times, of which the present moment most certainly is not.”

Lucy catches her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it for a moment as she considers that. 

“Lord Mason...you’re not...being threatened? Are you?” 

A shadow passes over Connor’s face, something like shame making him look suddenly years older. 

“No, my dear,” he replies. “No, this is a strictly voluntary endeavor. Albeit one I feel especially obligated to undertake. But thank you for your concern.” 

Lucy burns with curiosity, but the look on Connor’s face and the abject regret in his tone keep her from pressing further. Instead, she pushes back her chair and stands, brushing her hands on her skirts. 

“Well then. If that’s all, then I’ll turn in for the night. I assume we’ll be docking some time within the next few days?”

“The day after tomorrow, if current weather conditions hold,” Connor says, standing as well to see her to the door. “Goodnight, Miss Preston.”

“Goodnight, Lord Mason.”

When she reaches the end of the corridor, Lucy looks back over her shoulder to just catch sight of Mr. Flynn himself slipping into Connor’s office before the door shuts behind him. But, as she is not the type to listen at doors, she carries on to her own room. She’ll meet the man officially soon enough, she’s sure. 

In her room, she climbs into the small bunk and drifts—her mind won’t let go of that final look on Connor’s face, nor does it let go of any of her other questions—how does Lord Mason even know Mr. Flynn? What is in Venice? 

Sleep does not come easy. 

They do, in fact, dock in Venice two days later, although Lucy notes that when she and Connor disembark along with the rest of the crew, Mr. Flynn is nowhere to be seen. Curiouser still, when Connor checks them into the hotel, he asks only for two rooms and not three. 

The automaton operating the elevator clicks and ticks and whirls into action when they step inside, and Lucy starts to ask, “Is Mr. Flynn—”

Connor steps lightly on her foot and she snaps her mouth shut. 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain that either?” She asks quietly once they reach their floor. Connor glances around, busying himself with the key to his room as he replies.

“My sincerest apologies, my dear. I promise you will not be in the dark forever, only—only the less you know, the better off you will be. And on that note, it would be for the best to not mention the presence of certain...individuals. The walls, the clocks, the automatons, not to mention people, may have more ears than we would like.”

“Should I be concerned we’re involved in something illegal?” 

Connor shakes his head and opens his door. “We are merely here to retrieve something that’s been stolen.”

“Then the subterfuge…?”

“Is because the people who stole it may be unwilling to give it back,” he admits. “Better to be subtle and safe than to risk losing the chance. Now, I’m afraid I must leave you to make dinner plans on your own this evening as I will be otherwise engaged.”

The click of the door when he closes it in her face is decidedly final, and Lucy finds herself sighing and going to her own room instead of knocking and demanding further answers. She does not expect any additional explanations, nor does she necessarily need any except to indulge her curiosity. At least, that is what she tells herself when she unlocks her door and sets down her bags. 

It is not as if she is lacking in distractions. She is, after all, in Venice, she has never been before, and who knows when she might be again. She should enjoy herself. She will. And she will do so without another thought to Garcia Flynn.

That is what Lucy resolves. She will leave Connor and Garcia Flynn to their secrets and plots and have an otherwise lovely vacation. And that is exactly what she does. For exactly three hours and twenty-six minutes. 

And then come the gunshots.

* * *

_Present Day_

_Miss Preston,_

_I told you last night that I was looking for Lord Mason, but that was only half the truth. I had wondered, indeed even hoped, that you might be in attendance. I wanted to see you again. I want to see you again. I have not allowed myself to hope that you might feel similarly, however—_

 

_Dear Miss Preston,_

_When we last saw one another, all those months ago, there were so many things I wanted to say. But I did not have the words, I still do not have the words to fully express the way I feel. I was unworthy of your kindness and compassion, and yet, you gave them anyway. You saved my life. You saved my child. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I can never fully repay._

_I have thought of you every day since then. But not out of gratitude. Or not only out of gratitude._

_I walk the halls at Gracewood and wonder if you would like it there. I want to make you smile. I want to make you laugh. I want to run my fingers through your hair—_

 

_Lucy,_

_You looked beautiful last night._

 

Flynn tosses aside his pen, crumpling the third attempt at a letter with his free hand. Christ above, is there anything he can say that isn’t guaranteed to scare the woman off immediately? Even setting aside the fact that simple propriety dictates he cannot say such things, the chances that she would want to hear them at all are...slim. He is far from unaware of how he behaved during their first meeting. He knows full well that the fact she is interested in hearing from him at all is nothing short of a miracle. And yet—and yet. 

He left. He left when he was still grieving his wife, and he needed that, he did, but somehow he also tripped headlong into loving Lucy Preston and has not managed to find his way out. But he can’t say that.

Can he?

He rakes a hand through his hair and rubs the other over his face. Christ. 

“Papa? What are you doing?” Iris knocks on the door to announce herself, but doesn’t wait to be invited in, still childlike in her sense of boundaries. “Why are you upset?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to lie, but you can’t lie to someone who can feel your every emotion. It’s impossible. Or rather, it only results in awkwardness when they inevitably call you out for it, and Flynn isn’t willing to have that conversation at present. 

“I’m writing a letter,” he admits. “To Miss Preston. But I don’t know exactly what to say.”

Iris harrumphs in that way young children have, eternally judgmental and fully convinced that adults are merely making things more difficult than they need to be at all times. 

“You should ask her for tea,” she replies, entirely matter-of-fact. “I like her. And so does Miss Wallace. I’m sure she would say yes.”

Flynn exhales slowly and some of his tension bleeds away. 

“Maybe I will then,” he replies, pulling out another blank sheet. “Did you finish your lessons for today?”

Iris makes a face. “Papa, they’re _boring_ though.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have to do them.” When his daughter’s eyes turn sad and plaintive, Flynn sighs. “If you finish your lessons, I’ll invite Miss Preston for tea. Is that sufficient incentive?”

She breaks into a smile. “Yes.”

“Go find Miss Wallace then. I’ll let you know what Miss Preston says if she writes back.”

“She will,” Iris insists, far more certain than Flynn himself. “She likes you.”

“ _Iris._ ” For a seven-year-old, she’s far more precocious than she really ought to be. 

“She likes _me_ at least,” Iris replies. “That should be enough.”

“Go find Miss Wallace,” Flynn repeats. This time, thankfully, she listens. And he dips the pen into the inkwell once more.

_Dear Miss Preston,..._

* * *

_A year and six months ago_

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Flynn hisses as he wrenches his arm out of Lucy’s grip. 

For her part, after the events of the last hour, Lucy is in no mood whatsoever to be challenged, patronized, or scolded in any way by a man who—a man who—

She whirls around to face him and steps into his space, not at all cowed by his towering height or scowling mouth. To think, this man is supposedly a gentleman—well, she certainly has some things to say about that. 

“At the moment, what I know is that I am the person who, despite my better judgment, has stopped you from getting arrested tonight for _killing a man in public_ and destroying two police tockers,” Lucy replies, so much venom in her whisper that it has the force of a shout. 

“I wouldn’t have had to do any of that if you hadn’t interrupted my interrogation—“

“Oh is that what that was?” She scoffs. “My mistake, I assumed you were simply beating a stranger to death in an alleyway seeing how I didn’t exactly hear you asking any questions.”

The gunshots were what had drawn her attention when she had first been on her way back to the hotel after a quiet and leisurely dinner alone. It was the subsequent scuffle that led her to the alley where she found Mr. Flynn with bloody knuckles and his arm against the throat of a strange man as he pressed the man against the wall.

She shouted, it pulled Flynn’s focus, the other man wrenched free, his hand diving for something in his jacket—a gun, she realized later—

And Flynn shot him. The man’s last words had been, “You’ll never get it back.”

And Lucy...she could have left Flynn. The shots, the fight, had drawn the attention of law enforcement, which only made things worse, but the look on his face, for just a split second, well—

She hadn’t left him. Couldn’t. 

Despite her better judgment, indeed. 

“He was Rittenhouse,” Flynn replies, spitting the word like a curse.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Lucy asks. “Because it doesn’t.”

Flynn’s jaw ticks—it’s clear that he would like to end this discussion and run off to find something or someone else to vent his frustrations with, but given that every law enforcement entity in the city is likely looking for him, running away from her right now is not the best plan.

“Rittenhouse is a secret society based in London,” he grits out. “Extremely exclusive. Rich people with too much time on their hands dabbling in science, in magic, trying to combine the two—and their members like collecting. Precious magical objects, sometimes even—even people with unique abilities. That man was the first connection I’ve found in months and now I have nothing. I could wander around this godforsaken city for a year and might not find what I’m looking for without additional guidance—I needed his information.”

Lucy is half-tempted to shout, to scream, to leave him in the middle of the street, risk of arrest be damned, because none of what he has said is particularly helpful and he’s still looking at her like she was the one who committed a murder tonight. But she doesn’t. Instead, she jerks her head up in the direction of the window terraces on the hotel balconies.

“My room is the first from the right on the third floor,” she admits. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go inside, pretend that everything is perfectly normal, and go back to my room. You are going to climb up the terraces to the balcony and I will let you in when I get back. And then, you’re going to explain all of this. Before you argue, I will point out that the streets will soon be swarming with police, if they aren’t already. You cannot go back to the Mothership, since they will want to search any vessels that could provide an escape. So…”

Lucy looks at Flynn expectantly as his eyes cloud with consideration and then clear with resolve.

“Fine,” he replies. “I’ll explain, if that’s really what you want. But fair warning, Miss Preston. These people are dangerous. They take what they want, and they’re willing to kill for it. And to protect their secrets. Once you know…”

“I can handle myself, Mr. Flynn,” Lucy says firmly. His eyes spark as he considers her carefully. 

“Do you know,” he says after a long moment. “I rather think you can.” 

And then, without another word, he turns away and starts toward the terrace.


	3. Of Letters and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Preston is invited for tea, not quite in the manner she expected.

There are no letters addressed to Lucy with the morning post the day after the Mason ball—she tells herself it would have been unreasonable to expect one given the circumstances. After all, Flynn would have needed to have written almost immediately after leaving her in order for one to have arrived on time. Besides which, she reminds herself that he had not, in fact, promised to write at all, especially not on any sort of timeline. 

Nonetheless, she finds herself...distracted. Disappointed. 

Before Emma interrupted them, he had been in the process of issuing an invitation, had he not? He wanted to see her again? 

Unless he merely felt obligated under the circumstance and was grateful for the interruption. Their acquaintance was relatively brief, after all, and at a particularly difficult time in his life. It would be understandable, perhaps even reasonable, if he did not wish to renew it. 

Lucy spends the afternoon with Lord Marbury, taking a drive through Kensington, but afterwards she hardly recalls a word of their conversation. Had she been too forward the night before, giving Flynn her address? Asking about Iris? She knows how private he is—perhaps she overstepped—

“Letter for you, Miss.” Her lady’s maid interrupts her racing thoughts, and Lucy starts as the sealed letter is placed in front of her on the vanity. “From Tompkins House.”

Lucy is not oblivious to the curious glance Louisa flicks between her and the letter, a look that Lucy knows means this should be a source of gossip in the servants’ hall later. But, that doesn’t stop her from reaching for it anyway.

“Who is it from, Miss?”

“Garcia Flynn,” Lucy replies, scanning the letter. “Inviting me to tea at Tompkins House tomorrow with some ladies I have not seen in some time…” _Oh_. Her stomach drops. “...Mr. Flynn will be otherwise occupied.”

She sets the page aside and tries to tamp down on her disappointment. She is pleased about the invitation. She’s missed Jiya’s presence in London, and Amy Wallace is a lovely woman. As for young Iris Flynn, Lucy has rarely found herself fonder of a child. So she is far from adverse to the idea of spending an afternoon with them, it’s only...well. 

That rather confirms it, doesn’t it? That Flynn has little interest in renewing their acquaintance under more normal circumstances. 

She hasn’t seen him in over a year, there’s no reason why she should care so much. And yet...for all his faults, for all his flaws, Garcia Flynn is one of very few people and even fewer men who have always treated her like a regular person, with thoughts and ideas worthy of respect and consideration. 

She liked that. She missed that. But if he doesn’t want—

“Are you all right, Miss?” Curiosity has turned to concern, and Lucy forces a smile. 

“I’m perfectly fine, Louisa,” she replies. “Just tired. I’ll write back to accept before I change for dinner.” 

“Are you sure—”

“Louisa.” Lucy cuts off the question and pushes back the chair from the vanity. “That’ll be all.”

“Yes, miss.”

* * *

_A year and six months ago_

The issue is an amulet. At least, that is what Flynn tells Lucy when she gets him in her hotel room, and Connor confirms it afterwards. An amulet that individuals working on behalf of Rittenhouse supposedly stole from Flynn’s estate at Gracewood Manor, and in the process, also murdered his wife. Connor built a device to track the magical signature of the amulet, but hadn’t been able to calibrate it to provide a more precise location than simply Venice, hence why Flynn needed the direction of a Rittenhouse agent.

They spend two days regrouping, but the device doesn’t change location. The amulet is still in Venice. They just have no way of knowing how to start looking for it with Flynn lying low and Connor’s more discreet inquiries turning up nothing.

And then, Lucy gets the letter, slipped under her hotel room door. 

_Miss Preston,_

_I write to you as a matter of some urgency. It has come to my attention that you may be working with Connor Mason and Garcia Flynn—if that is the case, I know what you are looking for and would very much like to help you._

_Tomorrow afternoon, at 3PM, meet me at the Bridge of Sighs. Come alone._

_-AW_

“You have to go,” Flynn says when she brings the letter to the Mothership. “This could be exactly what we need.”

“Or, it could be a trap,” Lucy points out, crossing her arms over her chest. “We know nothing about this letter, where it came from, who sent it, or how they found out where I’m staying and that I know you. If this person really knows something about Rittenhouse, they’re probably a member.”

“So?”

Lucy nearly throws her hands up. “So. You’re the one who said they were dangerous. If this is a trap, I could be kidnapped, set up to be arrested, God knows what—”

“And you’re the one who said you could take care of yourself,” Flynn interrupts. “Besides, you wouldn’t be alone. I could go with you, wait out of sight for whoever it is to show up, and then interrogate them myself.”

“Because that went so well the last time?” 

“If you don’t want to help—”

“I don’t!” Lucy isn’t sure when she got so close, when _Flynn_ got so close, but she certainly notices when he steps back like she’s prodded him with an electric shock. 

“I don’t know you, Mr. Flynn,” she continues, lowering her voice back to a more reasonable level. “I am very sorry about your wife, and I can understand wanting your property back, but I _don’t know you_. Lord Mason may feel some sort of responsibility, but I have no such compulsion to risk my life to help you for the sake of a random magical object. Unless, of course, there’s something you’re not telling me that would change my mind?”

Flynn takes another step back, looking away from her, but for once the way his jaw tightens doesn’t read as anger or frustration. It’s something else. Swallowed pride perhaps. 

“It’s been in my family for over three hundred years,” he says finally. “The details of the story have changed over the years, but supposedly, my however many times great-grandmother saved the life of the Raven King. And in return he gave her an amulet that protected her from almost anything. That kind of magic, even weakened over time...you can’t buy it.”

“Okay, so it’s a priceless family heirloom,” Lucy allows. “That still doesn’t mean—”

Flynn makes a sound of frustration as he stares up at the ceiling. “You don’t understand.”

“Then _explain_ it!”

“It’s not about the amulet,” he snaps. For a moment, there’s enough tension in his body that he’s practically vibrating with it—so much that Lucy isn’t convinced one solid push wouldn’t break something in him—but the next, he blows out a breath, rubs a hand over his face, and then it’s like watching a puppet with its strings cut. Motionless. Still. Collapsing into himself because standing straight upright takes more effort than he has in him. 

For the first time, Lucy finds herself looking at him. Really looking. And she notices the sunken shadows beneath his eyes, the scattered strands of grey in his hair, the occasional healing patches of skin where he must have cut himself trying to shave—

He looks exhausted. Wrecked. Broken. 

No. This isn’t about an amulet. She doubts it’s even about his wife. 

“What is it about, then?” Lucy asks quietly. 

Flynn’s throat works as he swallows hard, the effort of it clear. When silence stretches between them, she half-expects that he won’t answer, but finally, _finally_ —

“The person _wearing_ it,” he admits, and when his eyes meet hers, she can read the desperation in them. “My daughter.”

“Your daughter?” It’s as if the floor has dropped out from under her. She knew that he had a child, had wondered how she was being taken care of while he was off on this madcap adventure, but she never imagined— “Why—what would Rittenhouse want with a _child_?”

“I told you they collect people with unique abilities,” Flynn replies. “Magical ability tends to run through women in my family, and Lorena also had some gifts of her own. Iris, my daughter, she can feel emotions, project them onto others if she tries—she can’t—she’s so young, she doesn’t have much in the way of control, but she’s special.”

He swallows again and grips the edge of the chair next to him. “When Rittenhouse came to Gracewood, it wasn’t for the amulet. It was for her. And before she died, Lorena put the amulet on her so that she would be protected. As long as Iris is in danger, no one can take it off of her, she should technically be safe, but it’s also—it’s hidden her, in a way. We couldn’t just track her, that’s why we’re tracking the amulet. And that’s why I’ve been—”

He gestures gracelessly with one hand, and his eyes lift back up to hers. 

“Before, you said—you said it was stolen six months ago,” Lucy says. “So you—you haven’t—”

“I haven’t held or seen or touched my child in half a year,” Flynn acknowledges. “She’s not even six years old. So, please, Miss Preston. Lucy. I know you don’t know me. I’ve given you no reason to like me. But please. I need you to go to that meeting. If there’s even a chance—”

“Okay.”

Flynn stops and the expression on his face breaks her heart. “Okay?”

“I’m not a monster, Mr. Flynn,” Lucy replies, picking up the letter again. “I’m not going to leave a child in danger if there’s something I can do to help. For the record...you really should have just led with that. We could have avoided a lot of arguing.”

Flynn manages a shaky half-smile. “I don’t know. If circumstances were different, I think I might enjoy arguing with you, Miss Preston.” 

The answering quirk of her lips comes more easily. “What’s your poison, Mr. Flynn? Art? Literature?”

“Mason tells me you’re a historian,” he replies. “Maybe when this is over, we could find something to debate with that.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

* * *

_Present Day_

“Lucy!”

Lucy arrives at Tompkins House slightly earlier than the time on the invitation, and almost immediately finds herself nearly knocked off her feet as someone smaller collides with her, throwing arms around her waist in a fierce hug. 

“Iris! What have we said about running in the house!” Familiar faces appear at the top of the stairs, Amy Wallace and Jiya Marri, but it’s Amy who is wearing a look of exasperation while Jiya tries not to laugh. 

Iris looks up from hugging Lucy and shrugs. “Not to do it—but I didn’t fall! I was careful!”

Lucy laughs and shakes her head as Amy rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and bites back a smile. 

“Just like you were careful two weeks ago when you fell out of that tree and cut yourself?” Jiya asks. “Somehow, I don’t think the fact that you didn’t hurt yourself defeats the reason for having a rule in the first place.”

“I’m pleased to see you, too, Iris,” Lucy says, before the girl can spark a debate on the finer points of rulemaking. “You’ve grown so much, I hardly recognize you!”

“Papa says I won’t get to be as tall as him, but I think I can prove him wrong.” Iris releases Lucy in favor of taking her hand and tugging her in the direction of a sitting room. 

“I’m sure you can.” 

_It’s good to see you again,_ Amy says in Lucy’s mind as Iris continues to lead the discussion. _We’ve all missed you._

Lucy reaches out with her free hand and squeezes one of Amy’s. _And I’ve missed you,_ she thinks back to the telepath before Amy lets go in order to wrangle Iris. 

“I’m sure Rufus would want me to ask how you are,” Lucy adds quietly to Jiya. 

“If Rufus wants to know how I am, he can ask me himself. He knows where to find me,” the other woman replies. “But for your knowledge, I’m doing quite well.”

“Not missing the excitement of the Mothership and Mason Industries?”

Jiya bites her lip. “Sometimes. A little,” she admits. “But I like Gracewood. And teaching that girl anything is never boring.”

“And—” Lucy swallows as the question sticks in her throat. “—and Flynn, is he—how is he?”

“Lucy!” The call pulls their focus, Iris beaming in her seat. “Come sit next to me!”

Both of them laugh. 

“Clearly we’re lagging behind,” Jiya says. “We should probably fix that.”

“Probably,” Lucy agrees.

“But—” Jiya adds. “—what I will say is Iris isn’t the only Flynn who missed you.”

Lucy blinks. “I—”

Jiya grins. “Time for tea, Lucy,” she teases, and leaves her side before Lucy can ask anything else. 

_She’s not wrong,_ Amy adds, and Lucy finds her cheeks warming despite herself. 

Right. That’s more than enough of that. 

Tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Jane Austen's Persuasion. "A natural sequel of an unnatural beginning."


End file.
